houseofcards_rp | [OTA] To The Day

Thirty-eight years ago in Aberdeen, Scotland, Benjamin Caillean Mackinnon was born to Anthony Mackinnon - a cardiologist affiliated with the hospital his only son was born in - and Sine Barrie Mackinnon, a historian. The date is no secret, and was neatly noted by the Diamond who met him at the Castle four years ago, when he arrived in Deck.

Still, Ben isn't really one for throwing a birthday parade, and so he's gone through his day the way he goes through all his days. Up in the morning and out with Charlie, because that dog has more energy than Ben does even under the influence of an entire pot of coffee. Then to the pub, to frown at inventory and the books and open the place up in time for lunch business. Then he's largely busy; his birthday went and fell on Friday this year, after all, and that's the day that everyone seems to be coming by.

Sometime in late afternoon, though, he leaves the pub in the semi-capable hands of his cook and goes for a wander in Town. He might buy himself a book or a blade, or just end up at one of the cafes for tea and - probably, because he was human - cake. He does have birthday rituals, even if they're not flashy ones.

One of them involves not working the entire day.

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"So long as you keep your good looks, I expect it isn't much of a problem. So few of you have anything really important to say even with full mental capacity."

That arched brow will be met with a calm pat on the cheek before she settles, briefly, on her elbows. Surely what he wants to do on his special day is be kept behind the bar by customers, after all.

"What's the verdict, then? I've heard both thirty-five and sixty, and I haven't decided which I like more."

"It's true," he says with a theatrical sigh as he leans his elbows on the table. "Facts are, most of the brains were given to the ladies, no matter how much my side might protest that." They did have their rare moments, though.

Well, he liked to think so, at least.

"Neither one, though I daresay if I'm so well-preserved at sixty, someone ought to throw a parade. 'Tis thirty-eight, actually," he adds with a bit of a grin. "I'll be needing a cane shortly, I'm thinking."

To that she'll lift her glass, still not quite empty. Sometimes men do say mildly clever things, after all, and that's perfectly lovely to toast.

"Thirty-eight." Her sigh is rather dreamy, of course. Fondly, fondly does she remember the age of of so many threes of years ago. So young, so foolish. "And this is your masterful celebration of succeeding to avoid dead thirty-eight whole years in a row?"

She doesn't look a day over thirty-two, Ben thinks, whereas his skin is getting increasingly craggy, truth be told. It's fortunate that people seem to like that sort of thing.

"It 'tis," he confirms with a slight smile. "Well, likely I'll go procure myself some cake in a bit. Ian's got many admirable cooking skills," he adds, nodding at the kitchen. "But he does best with things you can toss in the deep-fryer, really."

If women have the brains, men have the pleasure of looking 'distinguished' as they begin to show signs of age. Ben's certain to be able to enjoy much fussing when he start to get properly grey at the temples, whereas Rita? Is just glad she's been dyeing her hair since she was sixteen.

The click of her tongue is light as she shakes her head. "Working all day and then cake? Not going to run around and demand people make much of you?"

He gives her a long look, up and down, and then nods to himself as if coming to some sort of decision. This one can be trusted with the great secret of mankind. Still, he leans forward, because no one else in this room can be, that's for certain.

"It's in the code," he tells her. "If you demand confetti, you have to turn in your man badge."

Of course she leans closer with absolute seriousness. Of course she manages to school her expression until he's finished speaking.

More than anything, however, she's immensely regretting that her life and choices hadn't led to her being the sort of person who carried confetti in their pocket for just such occasions.

"I hope you won't be offended, doll, but you really do have to hold onto that. You wouldn't survive another thirty-eight years as a woman."

It's unfortunate, if only because it'd likely get the regulars up in arms, and then there'd be just the sort of impromptu party that Ben manfully does not want. There'd probably be singing of Happy Birthday.

Badly.

Alas.

"Oh, I've gotten that one clear enough," he tells her with a wink. "It's only the brainless sorts who think they could take womanhood."

"And that level-headed understanding is more than half of why you're so perfectly charming to those of us who do."

Men like Ben made the burden of womanhood so much less of one--or, at a minimum, didn't make it worse. It had to be appreciated.

"Am I allowed to say the 'b' word, or is that as verboten as confetti today?"

"I do live to serve, lass," Ben says with a bit of grin before he cast an eye around the pub. It was getting crowded, he thinks. About time to shake them up and get Friday night properly going.

"I suppose I could let you get away with it," he says. "For a kiss."

Of course that gets a sharp arch of her brow. But, well, of course, she's also shifting up slightly from her seat.

"That'll count as your present, then?"

Of course it does. Rita's a smart lady, and Ben wouldn't have it any other way. Flirting's not as much as fun when they don't both know all the rules to the game.

And if they aren't both capable of making them up as they go around.

"I can't imagine a better one," he tells her. "If you'd be so kind, of course."

Let it never be said Rita James isn't a kind woman. A bit sharp perhaps, a bit harsh from time to time, but all motivated by kindness. Or the approximation.

Time, clearly, as she reached to pluck his collar and pull him a little closer, for her very best Marilyn Monroe.

"Happy birthday, Mr Mackinnon."

Sealed, as requested, with a friendly little kiss against his lower lip.

The kiss back is perhaps not quite so friendly, all told. More of a promise of what might be if Rita wanted it to be. Slow and teasing, as it were, and just long enough for one lonely catcall to echo through the bar.

"Thank you, Ms. James," he says with a wicked grin. "Much appreciated."

Certainly something to file away. For all she's a physical sort of woman--for all there's a lot of arm-holding and cheek-kissing--being properly kissed is somewhat more novel these days than she'd prefer. Definitely an unspoken message to keep in mind.

Or speak. Whichever. "My pleasure." Her hand shifts from his chin, thumb rubbing where the faintest shimmer of lipstick had been left behind. "You need another one to hold you over 'til thirty-nine, you just give a whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you?"

His eyes glint at that, in amused appreciation. Not enough women of his acquaintance quote Bacall and Bogart, and that is a damn shame. "Just put my lips together and blow," he said.

"I'll practice, just for you, Rita." He eases back, a warm smile on his face as he tips his head to one side. "Another daiquiri, lass?" It's the least he can do, for such a fine present.

The joys of flirting with someone one's own age. She'd never understand why more people didn't indulge in it.

"I shouldn't. I really can't stay."

But, you know. She's pulling out her wallet again. Two little umbrellas are surely better than one.

He's indulged in the younger woman thing himself - though to be fair, Sophie Berthier is only younger chronologically. There'd been too much responsibility in her life for her to really seem any younger than him.

He smiles. "Just one more," he tells her, and starts to mix the drink.

At the end, he adds a turquoise umbrella to it with a flourish.

[OTA] To The Day

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